


Close Analysis

by fengirl88



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Humour, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Pre-Slash, Teasing, UST
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-11-15
Updated: 2010-11-15
Packaged: 2017-10-13 05:17:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,629
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/133388
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fengirl88/pseuds/fengirl88
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lestrade tries to comfort Sherlock, who is confused about an incident with John.  Sherlock is not grateful for long.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. An Inspector Calls

**Author's Note:**

> The incidents in this story also appear in Unpredictable, where they are seen from Sherlock's and John's points of view.
> 
> Spoilers for A Study In Pink, the first episode of the BBC series, Sherlock.

Despite the fancy name, which sounds posh (because French), and which incidentally is not his original name (but let's not go there, shall we? at least not for now), Inspector Lestrade started life pretty far down the social scale. He's done well for himself, knows he looks good for his age, has a decent sense of style, likes to preen a bit now and then. But not far below the surface he still and always feels that he's really just a bit of rough. And he still has that weakness, the one he's always had, for fucked-up posh boys with gorgeous educated voices and neuroses by the cartload.

Sherlock is - of course - the worst of these obsessions. Has been ever since Lestrade first ran into him intruding on a crime scene, years ago, talking nineteen to the dozen what sounded like complete bullshit but turned out to be spot on. Making Lestrade feel slow and stupid and as if he was still a plodding copper on the beat instead of a nicely-thank-you high-flying officer in the Met. And also - predictably, but it just wouldn't go away - making Lestrade uncertain whether what he most wanted to do to Sherlock was throttle him or shag him senseless. Or first one and then the other. Probably that. Yes.

He knows that Sherlock has got his number - fuck it, Sherlock's got _everyone's_ number, or it feels that way at times to Lestrade. Seems like there's no-one Sherlock can't see through at a glance. So it's been awkward between them, sometimes. Because Lestrade's brain seems to work even less well around Sherlock. For obvious reasons. Nobody thinks clearly when they're trying not to get an erection. Or, worse, when they've already lost that battle.

Most of the time when he's with Sherlock, Lestrade manages to keep his mind firmly on his job. If he couldn't, he'd have had to resign long ago. But sometimes, there's that moment when he feels his self-control slipping. Not to mention the times when he _knows_ Sherlock is deliberately winding him up. Or doing that thing of being massively rude to Lestrade for no good reason. It's embarrassing that Lestrade can find this hot.

Life would be simpler, he sometimes thinks, if Sherlock didn't exist. It would be a _lot_ simpler if he existed but was nondescript-looking, or indeed ugly, rather than what he is: the most gorgeous and fucked-up of all the gorgeous and fucked-up posh boys Lestrade has ever had the hots for.

But today something's different, and he doesn't know why. If Sherlock was a dog, Lestrade would say his coat looked out of condition. Probably better not to think about _coat_ and _Sherlock_ in the same sentence. Lestrade's fantasies about Sherlock and The Coat can still make him blush, and not much does that these days.

Sherlock's clothes are all part of what makes him irresistible to Lestrade, and what makes Lestrade feel more than ever like a bit of rough ( _just an under-gamekeeper_ , but let's not go there, shall we? or at least not for the moment). The beautifully cut classic suits; the sharp shirts. The coat. (I said, _not_ to think about the coat.) But today Sherlock is wearing what looks suspiciously like a ratty old grey t-shirt over pyjama bottoms. With a blue silk dressing-gown, natch, but still. It's not like him.

The interloper is not around today, that's one good thing. Lestrade has taken to calling John Watson that in his head and knows it's only a matter of time before he does it out loud. At which point, he wouldn't mind betting, there will be the most almighty row with Sherlock. Ever since that washed-out little ex-Army type turned up it's been clear that Sherlock thinks he's something special. They're like a couple of kids in the playground, new best friends forever. Sometimes Lestrade thinks they're a bit more than that. Which is _really_ annoying, because he's pretty sure he could show Sherlock a much better time in bed than John Watson ever will.

Lestrade used to be quite good at shagging, though he hasn't done much of it recently. And, face it, he's never going to be up to the old dramatic entry via the bedroom window again. That's a young man's game, and Lestrade is not a young man any more. Still, some things improve with age and practice, and he's willing to bet he's had more of that than those two lovebirds put together. Not difficult, when one of the two is Sherlock, who apparently doesn't have a sex life at all. Or else keeps it so cleverly hidden that hopeless plodding DI Lestrade will never find it.

Anyway, JW is out. Which is a relief. But Sherlock is visibly drooping, like a toddler with low blood sugar. Which is worrying. Lestrade is _fond_ of Sherlock, a thing that really shouldn't have been allowed to happen, but which sneaked up on him while he wasn't looking. It's bad enough wanting to throttle Sherlock or shag him senseless or both without also sometimes - like today - just wanting to give him a great big hug and a kiss.

This won't do. Lestrade pulls himself together. Tries to sound gruff and barely interested.

"What's up with you, then?" Bit too keen, that came out as. But the sardonic glint he usually gets from Sherlock when he shows his feelings too plainly doesn't materialize.

Lestrade's lounging in the armchair, making himself at home, or trying to. He feels this look was easier to pull off with a room full of police officers as backup. ("They're not strictly speaking _on_ the drugs squad, but they're all very keen.") At least then Sherlock was caught off guard. For a moment it almost felt like Lestrade had got him where he wants him. He hadn't, of course. Ran rings round Lestrade as usual and then sloped off to dinner with his new best friend, giggling like idiots. (Which reminds Lestrade to wash that shock blanket of Sherlock's and take it back before somebody notices it's missing. The smell's pretty much faded now anyway.)

No answer from Sherlock. He tries another cue that sometimes works: "OK, gimme."

Sherlock gets up off the sofa where he's been curled up sulking and starts pacing about the room, tugging at his hair as if he's trying to pull it out by the roots.

Lestrade considers offering to do that for him, but restrains himself. Sherlock and hair-pulling. Another one to add to his list of things not to think about except in bed. It's quite a long list already, but then he has spent quite a few years compiling it.

"I don't know what to _do_ ," Sherlock says, suddenly and loudly, as if it's being forced out of him against his will.

"Don't know what to do about what?" Lestrade asks, carefully. Sherlock's pacing is starting to make him feel giddy; it's distracting.

No answer. More pacing and hair-tugging. Lestrade loses patience and grabs Sherlock's wrist, catching him off-balance and pulling him down into the chair with him. This at least has the immediate benefit of stopping the pacing, but Lestrade's not sure what to do next. Also having a furious disconcerted Sherlock struggling against him is - predictably - a bit difficult to deal with, and probably not going to end well.

"Fuck off," Sherlock says, and pushes Lestrade against the back of the chair - but, oddly, he doesn't get up, which Lestrade thought for sure he would.

This is all a bit awkward and silly now. Sherlock's half-in, half-out of the chair. Lestrade feels as if he's got a big overgrown kid practically sitting in his lap, which should absolutely not be erotic. But it's not a kid, it's Sherlock, which means there's no way Lestrade is going to stay calm. _Didn't really think this through, did you?_ He clears his throat.

"Look, Sherlock, it's bloody obvious there's _something_ going on. So why don't you tell me what it is and - oh, I dunno, maybe it'll all seem clearer or you'll find a solution to whatever it is."

"You're not my sodding therapist," Sherlock says, with the ghost of his usual stroppiness.

"Just as well," Lestrade says cheerfully; "I'd be struck off if people saw us like this. Anyway, I didn't know you _had_ a sodding therapist. Is that new?"

"I don't!" _Still touchy about that, then._ Lestrade makes another effort to compose himself. Any minute now he's going to have to start going through the periodic table or the alphabet backwards or any one of the many other things he's tried to think about over the years to stop himself getting overexcited around Sherlock. He tries again.

"So, do you want to tell me about it?"

Sherlock doesn't say anything.

"Has something happened?"

Still nothing. _Fuck it_. OK, one more, and this _really_ goes against the grain, but all Lestrade's instincts are telling him that this next question is the key. The key to unlock Sherlock, so to speak. Yeah, puns. Great. Concentrate, Lestrade. Big effort. Say what you've got to say and then go home.

"Is this something to do with John Watson?"

 _Bingo_. Sharp intake of breath from Sherlock, like someone's just punched him in the gut.

"How did you know? How could you possibly - Christ, is it _that_ obvious?" He sounds horrified.

"Thanks," says Lestrade sarcastically.

"Sorry," Sherlock mutters. Lestrade's not sure he heard that correctly. Thinks he might be hallucinating.

"?"

"Sorry," Sherlock says again. "Just - I thought I was doing a good job of hiding it."

Lestrade could kick himself, because he _really_ didn't need to hear this. But he smacks that down and tells himself he's got to do the right thing. Which, right now, means trying to be a good friend to Sherlock.

"Bit of a guess, really," he says apologetically. "Got to get it right now and then, law of averages - "

He stops, because Sherlock's hand is over his mouth. _Oh shit_. Sherlock's long hands are, it goes without saying, high on the list of _things not to think about except in bed._

"If I'm going to tell you this then you have to shut up and promise not to interrupt." Sherlock takes his hand away again. Just as well.

"Don't see how I'm supposed to do both," Lestrade grumbles, and gets a sharp elbow in the ribs for his pains. _Ouch_. "OK, OK. I promise. Fire away."


	2. The Talking Cure

Lestrade doesn't know whether to be relieved or disappointed that Sherlock gets off him and goes to sit on the sofa. He settles for being a bit of both, which is probably about right.

There's another long silence. Lestrade resists the temptation to break it by inviting Sherlock to lie on the couch and tell him his dreams.

Sherlock stares at the floor. He looks absolutely bloody terrified, which is a thing Lestrade has never seen him do in all the years they've known each other.

Eventually Sherlock says "The other night - "

 _Knew it!_ , Lestrade thinks. _Went off to dinner, got drunk, shagged the flatmate and now it's all gone pear-shaped. Typical stupid fucking mistake by the man with a brain the size of a planet._

There's another silence. Lestrade wonders if an encouraging "Mm?" would constitute interrupting. Is not sure he can get the correct therapeutic inflection anyway. Leaves it.

"The other night," Sherlock begins again, "well, um, the, er, morning really, early morning, I - " He stops again. Clenches his fists. _Oops_. This doesn't look like a story with a happy ending. Not, of course, that Lestrade wants it to have one. Or not without him in it as well. _Shut up, Lestrade_.

"It wasn't my fault," Sherlock says. Sounding as if he means exactly the opposite.

"What wasn't?" Lestrade asks, forgetting his promise. He expects Sherlock to yell at him but he doesn't. Which is even more worrying.

"It was - I - he'd had a nightmare, and then I - so we were... " Sherlock breaks off again.

This is making a grisly kind of sense, or it would be if it was anyone but Sherlock. Lestrade is gobsmacked, but he has to make sure he's understood.

"John had a nightmare and you - comforted him?" he suggests.

Sherlock looks as if he's about to throw up. _Bugger. Got it wrong._ Or has he?

"I just - I thought, company, you know? Security. Something like that, I don't understand how - I mean, we were both groggy, but I said - "

Another long silence. Lestrade tries to look neutral and receptive, which is not easy when your main thought is that you'd like to smack John Watson, _hard_. Several times.

"You said?"

"I said, why not come in with me?"

Lestrade just barely heard that, but he's not going to ask Sherlock to say it again. His gut feels knotted with jealousy.

"So he did?" Lestrade wonders how many more of these prompts it will take before Sherlock tells him to shut the fuck up.

"Yes." Almost a whisper.

Lestrade braces himself to hear about the shagging, which is the last thing he wants, but he imagines that's what's coming next. After yet another interminable bloody silence, of course.

"So we went to sleep," Sherlock says.

 _Oh. Right._

"And then I woke up and I couldn't - I knew there was someone there but I didn't - and then I remembered - "

 _Is this about the murder?_ , Lestrade wonders. Something fishy about that, he'd known it at the time. Couldn't prove it, though.

But apparently that's not it either.

"I remembered who it was," Sherlock says. Stops again.

Lestrade feels an almost overwhelming urge to shake him and yell "Don't come to me with half a story!" But he is a patient man. Mostly. Except where Sherlock is concerned, of course.

"And then?" he says, still feeling he's on bloody thin ice.

"I don't _do_ this," Sherlock says, exasperated. "I don't _do_ people. I don't _do_ bed-sharing."

"Not wrong, though, is it? I mean, just because it's a man..." Lestrade trails off. No, he's definitely on the wrong track there.

"It's not that!" Sherlock is shouting now. "You _know_ it's not that, I don't - it's just wrong for _me._ With anyone."

Lestrade feels suddenly very sorry for him. Another unusual thing. Normally he's just incensed by that cold, inhuman side to Sherlock, the complete lack of emotional connection. Now - he doesn't know, so much. It's as if - almost as if - something _has_ finally got through to him and the poor stupid fucker has no idea what to do with it.

He thinks of lots of things he could say. They all seem utterly bloody useless so he doesn't say any of them.

Sherlock says something so quiet that this time Lestrade _really_ doesn't hear what it is.

"Sorry?"

"I wanted him to be there. I liked it."

"Oh." _There's no answer to that_. Apart from wanting to break all the furniture and pitch John Watson through the nearest plate-glass window, that is.

"Then he woke up and I - " Brace yourself, Lestrade, here it comes. Oh no, it doesn't. Bloody hell, he's stalled again. Lestrade is going to need a _very_ large drink at the end of all this.

"I was - I had - um, it, I don't know why, well, he was lying quite close to me and - " Sherlock stops again.

"You had an erection?" says Lestrade, trying to sound politely interested and hearing it come out as a jealous croak.

Sherlock doesn't say anything, but he nods. Stares at the floor again.

"Well," says Lestrade, struggling to find something helpful, "it's not surprising, is it? I mean, can easily happen, you're in bed with someone you like and next thing you know - " _Stop babbling_ , he tells himself. Then, fatally, he adds: "Bit tricky if they wake up when you're having a quiet wank, though."

Sherlock's head jerks up. He glares at Lestrade. "I _wasn't_! - I wasn't doing _anything_ \- I just - _lying_ there and I _wanted_ \- but I didn't, _nothing_ , just - "

Lestrade now feels like a complete and utter moron. Back to normal, then.

"So, if - " His turn to run out of words. Another silence, pretty awkward one, truth be told. Lestrade feels like he's just farted in church or something, which is hardly fair.

"He woke up," Sherlock says. "It was - his hand was right there, next to - He must have _known_."

 _But you're not sure, are you?_ , Lestrade thinks. Which means JW didn't do anything. Stupid bastard. Imagine passing up a chance like that. Suddenly he feels more cheerful.

Sherlock, however, is back to miserable and subdued.

"So," Lestrade says, trying to go carefully this time, "has he ... said anything?"

Sherlock shakes his head.

"Um, is he, _different_ with you?" Lestrade asks, thinking _And that's a stupid question to ask about someone the guy's known for less than a week._ Still, it is Sherlock he's asking. Who, famously, can deduce anything he needs to know about anybody. Except, it would seem, John bloody Watson.

"I don't _think_ so," Sherlock says.

And he sounds so lost, so absolutely desolate and alone that Lestrade is up out of the armchair before he's had a chance to think, and sitting next to him on the sofa. _Oh brilliant_. This is not what he meant to do at all.

Lestrade thinks about putting his arm round Sherlock. Thinks better of it. Settles for patting Sherlock's shoulder in what he hopes is a reasonably unthreatening way. Struggles with the temptation to kiss Sherlock, which would definitely be a really bad idea right about now. Tries not to inhale too deeply because that wouldn't be a good idea either.

"It'll probably be all right, you know, " he says stupidly.

Sherlock makes a little _hnf_ sort of noise that practically breaks Lestrade's heart. _Stop being so bloody_ _wet_ _, Lestrade, for God's sake. Pull yourself together, man._

But, oh shit, Sherlock. Sherlock leans against him, which is definitely out of character for someone who doesn't do touching. Buries his face in Lestrade's neck. _Christ_. OK, that's it. Lestrade is giving in now. There's only so far you can push a man before he cracks and Lestrade has had enough. Yep, putting his arm around Sherlock now. Complete fucking disaster.

Sherlock is saying something which Lestrade can't hear, mostly because he's saying it into Lestrade's neck. _Oh, for crying out loud_. Sherlock's mouth moving against his neck, how is he supposed to cope with that? It's just not _fair._

"What did you say?" Lestrade croaks.

Sherlock looks up, pulls back from the embrace. His eyes are that sea colour you could drown in, really quite easily, huge, and there are little patches of colour on those extraordinary cheekbones, and actually, thinking about it, not that Lestrade is really capable of thinking any more because every single drop of blood in his upper body just headed south, Sherlock's pale skin is uncharacteristically flushed.

 _Ah_. Lestrade _really_ hopes he's reading the signs right this time, because if he is the afternoon may just have taken a massive turn for the better.

Sherlock has another go at that thing he was saying into Lestrade's neck. "I said, thank you for putting up with all that." Which is sweet, but not exactly encouraging.

"Oh well," says Lestrade awkwardly. "You know I only do it 'cause I fancy you." He says it as if it's a joke, which it sort of is and sort of isn't.

"Yes, I know," Sherlock says. For the first time that afternoon, he smiles.

Lestrade doesn't have the knotted feeling in his gut any more, but something inside him does a sort of flipping over thing. It's all very confusing and absolutely fucking typical of his dealings with Sherlock. Meanwhile, there's this inconvenient erection, yet again, which obviously hasn't escaped Sherlock's notice.

"How many is that now?" Sherlock asks.

"I don't keep a tally," Lestrade says, a bit huffily.

Sherlock still has that look about him, like someone who might just possibly say yes, if Lestrade only knew the right question to ask. Which he doesn't, not for this. Lestrade sighs. Looks like today isn't going to be his lucky day after all.


	3. Clinical Observation

"Well, _you_ look a bit less like a wet weekend than you did an hour ago," Lestrade says. Going for cheery banter but it comes out apprehensive. There's a reason for that.

Sherlock is looking a damn sight perkier, almost back to normal. Which Lestrade knows means he really ought to get out of here sharpish. Any minute now Sherlock is going to decide he's bored and start looking round for something to interfere with. And the nearest thing to hand right now is Lestrade.

More specifically, Lestrade's inconvenient erection, which Sherlock is looking at a bit too intently for Lestrade's liking. Because whatever Sherlock is plotting in that devious bloody mind of his, _being nice to Lestrade_ is probably not it. Apart from anything else, Sherlock is bound to be looking to get his own back on Lestrade for seeing him in the state he was in earlier. Plus, there's a glint in Sherlock's eye that Lestrade has seen before. _Experimental_.

 _Being experimented on by Sherlock_ , in a variety of more or less sexual ways, is another item on Lestrade's fantasy list. Quite high up the list, actually. But in his fantasies Lestrade gets to decide what Sherlock does to him, with what, for how long and how it makes him feel. And, of course, in the fantasy experiments Lestrade always gets to come. Quite a lot. This is not helping. _Stop it_ , Lestrade tells himself.

In real life, being one of Sherlock's experiments is a more worrying prospect.

Lestrade thinks about Sherlock's _actual_ experiments. Left his riding crop in the mortuary the other day, apparently. _Riding crop_. Lestrade swallows hard. Christ only knows what Sherlock might take it into his head to do to him, the condition Lestrade's in right now.

Unfortunately, this line of thought just seems to be making things worse.

Sherlock continues to study the by now seriously embarrassing bulge in Lestrade's trousers. He has a sort of _measuring_ look Lestrade doesn't like one little tiny bit.

The thing to do now, obviously, is to get off the sofa and go home. Bit easier said than done. Lestrade is promising himself a very big drink when he gets home, followed by other things it's best not to dwell on if he wants to be able to get off the sofa at all. He's not sure he can right now. But, dear God, he really does need to get away from Sherlock in this mood.

Lestrade knows this wouldn't make sense to anyone who doesn't know Sherlock, _the lucky bastards_. Sherlock is stronger than his lanky frame makes him look (best not to dwell on that either) but Lestrade is no 7-stone weakling himself. So it's not as if Sherlock is going to overpower him. Or handcuff him to the sofa and – _Stop it, Lestrade_.

Mind you, Sherlock's perfectly capable of that. Lestrade worries briefly about where he left those handcuffs. Sherlock's tendency to get annoyed and pickpocket Lestrade can be a menace at the best of times, but this...

It's really quite unnerving that Sherlock isn't saying anything.

Usually you can't shut him up, even when you want to. Lestrade can't keep up, doesn't even try. Sherlock's mouth seems to be about the only thing that goes as fast as his brain and ... that _really_ isn't helping. Lestrade starts mentally reciting a list of the kings and queens of England in chronological order. Unfortunately the version he's picked is the rhyming one he learned at school, which uses nicknames and abbreviations, so there are three accidental synonyms for _cock_ in the first two lines.

Lestrade realizes he'd better think about something else.

Meanwhile, Sherlock's _measuring_ look has been replaced by one that Lestrade identifies with a shudder as _destructive child contemplating interesting new toy with a view to taking it apart._ Sherlock _is_ a child in some ways, though he had the nerve to accuse Lestrade of childishness about the drugs bust. Lestrade feels like the drugs bust was the last time he was in control of his own life, even though a serial killer was still on the loose and Sherlock was being obnoxious with the dial turned up to 11. ("Anderson, _don't_ talk out loud, you lower the IQ of the whole street.") Sherlock's childishness is one of the things that makes him so dangerous; he doesn't understand about hurting people, any more than a small child understands why the kitten it's just banged on the head isn't getting up and running about like they do on the cartoons. The curiosity is childish too. And imaginative. _Oh shit._

Lestrade tells himself that whatever Sherlock has in mind can't possibly be as bad as this build-up is making it seem. But in any case he still has time to make an excuse and leave. Trouble is, there's a bit of Lestrade that's still hoping he might be about to have sex with Sherlock. The same bit of Lestrade that Sherlock is currently eyeing up.

"Had a good look, have you?" Lestrade says.

That was probably a mistake.

Sherlock grins. _Oh God._

"I'm assuming that must be rather uncomfortable," he says.

"Bit, yeah," says Lestrade, thinking _Keep your mouth shut Lestrade you stupid git._ He _knows_ that Sherlock will use whatever you give him to play with, so why does he _do_ this? _Text your answer to the number on the screen now._

"Could go on for quite a while, I suppose," Sherlock says.

Lestrade's not falling for that one twice. He keeps shtum and tries not to let anything show in his face. Lost cause, of course, but you have to try.

"How do you usually deal with them?" Sherlock asks. His tone is like a cross between a doctor and someone carrying out market research.

"You what?" Lestrade hadn't meant to say anything but he's tripped into it.

"How do you usually deal with your erections?" Sherlock says, rephrasing the question slightly for the benefit of the terminally stupid.

Lestrade wonders if he's hallucinating again.

"It's a perfectly straightforward question," Sherlock says, a touch impatiently.

Lestrade bangs himself on the forehead with his left hand. He's not sure why. It doesn't seem to have made the craziness go away. He doesn't even know why he thought it might.

"What does _anybody_ do with them?" he says.

Brilliant. Another bloody own goal.

"Well," says Sherlock, sounding as if he's about to give a lecture to a hall full of biologists or something, "I gather there are various approaches."

Lestrade is _really_ sure this sort of conversation is not good for his blood pressure. He decides to go on the attack.

"You must have _some_ ideas of your own," he says. "Given your recent experiences."

Sherlock's look tells Lestrade he is about to regret saying that. A lot.

"Sorry," Lestrade says. _Too late._

"I don't find it happens very often," Sherlock says. "The simplest practice is presumably to wait for them to go away of their own accord."

The way Lestrade's feeling now, that would be a relief. But he has a feeling he's not going to get off so lightly.

"Yours, however, seems to be rather determined," Sherlock says.

Lestrade thinks, briefly and disastrously, that it wouldn't last two minutes if Sherlock got hold of it. He manages not to say this, which is about the only smart thing he's done for the last half-hour.

"So," Sherlock says, expectantly.

"So what?"

"So how do you deal with yours?"

"I'm not telling you that! Christ, Sherlock, you really – what is _wrong_ with you?"

"Don't change the subject," Sherlock says reprovingly.

Lestrade looks at Sherlock. The mad bastard genuinely _does_ expect an answer. Lestrade just has to try _really_ hard not to give him one. So to speak. He shakes his head.

"If you can't manage a coherent verbal description then a demonstration will do," Sherlock says, sounding a bit tetchy. Lestrade feels like he's a backward schoolboy about to get put in detention for not doing his homework.

He splutters "Sherlock, if you think I'm going to toss myself off while you sit and watch..."

"The usual ending of that sentence is _You've got another think coming_ ," Sherlock says, smugly.

Lestrade tries to sound authoritative, though he knows this is also a lost cause. " _No_ , Sherlock. I am _not_ going to do this."

Sherlock's look is now a mixture of _politely expectant_ and _innocently puzzled_. When Lestrade gets his breath back, which at this rate may not be for a while, he is definitely going to kill him.

Lestrade braces himself for the next outrageous remark.

Unfortunately, Sherlock's next move is not verbal but physical.

The kiss is a quick one on the lips, over almost before it's begun. Sherlock sits back and raises his eyebrows.

" _No_ , Sherlock."

Sherlock lands another kiss, this time on Lestrade's neck, low down near his collarbone. _Shit._

" _No_." Lestrade clings to the conviction that Sherlock can't actually _make_ him do this. The conviction, however, seems to be dwindling by the second.

Sherlock's fingers brush lightly across Lestrade's erection.

Lestrade groans and makes a grab for Sherlock's wrist, but he's too slow. Sherlock is laughing at him.

Lestrade glares. "Cock-tease."

Sherlock says "Surely that term is only correct if I'm not going to make you come."

Lestrade's not sure about that. But he's also getting a bit dizzy. "Fucking pedant," he manages.

Sherlock – _oh Christ_ – is unbuckling Lestrade's belt, unzipping him and -

And nothing. Sherlock sits back again. Lestrade bites his lip but it's going to take more than that to stop this. He's breathing raggedly.

Sherlock, the fucker, is sitting there as calmly as if nothing has happened. Looking at Lestrade and waiting for him to crack.

Lestrade looks back at him, thinking _You complete and utter bastard_.

Doesn't try to speak though. Probably best.

Sherlock huffs impatiently. He tugs Lestrade's trousers and boxers down just far enough with a distinct air of annoyance at Lestrade's inefficiency.

"For example," he says, "I gather that some people favour _this_ sort of approach."

Sherlock slides his hand up Lestrade's cock, gripping it tight and then he gives a sort of twist, so that his cupped palm curves over and around the head, caressing it, before the ring of his hand moves firmly down again to the base.

If Lestrade groans any louder than that the sandwich shop next door will be round to complain about the noise.

Sherlock takes his hand away again. _Fuck_. He looks even more pleased with himself than usual, which takes some doing.

"But I'm sure you have your own method in these matters," he says encouragingly, as if they're discussing the best way to assemble flat-pack furniture or make a proper cup of tea.

" _Christ_ , Sherlock - " Lestrade didn't know he could sound that hoarse.

Sherlock is grinning. "Come on," he says.

Lestrade's self-respect is hanging by a thread here. A fraying thread, at that. He grabs Sherlock's hand and forces it to his cock, moving up and down in the way he needs to. Sherlock's not actually fighting him, so -

No room left in brain for thoughts. Lestrade is right on the edge now. He can't see Sherlock's mocking expression any more. Can't, in fact, see anything because he's so close to coming. The blood is pounding in his ears, his heart is racing and nothing is going to stop this until -

Sherlock wrenches his hand away, jerking Lestrade's wrist quite badly, though the endorphins are blocking the pain of that for now. Lestrade still can't really see anything but he can still just about hear a voice, shocked and angry and disgusted, coming from the landing through the open door:

"Sherlock, _what the hell - "_

Only one person it could be. Lestrade might have known. Knows even before he hears Sherlock's voice, badly rattled, saying " _John_ \- "

Bloody Watson.


	4. The Doctor Is In

_Bloody Watson..._

Lestrade's vision is still blurred and his head is swimming but he doesn't have to be able to see to know that John Watson is standing there glaring at him and Sherlock entangled on the sofa, Lestrade with his pants down and his cock out. And that, presumably, Watson must also have seen Lestrade's hand wrapped around Sherlock's hand wrapped around Lestrade's cock. Lestrade promises himself a good long think about all that when he gets home. With a different ending. One involving John bloody Watson tied up in a cupboard somewhere so he can't interfere.

This isn't really one of those times when you can say _It's not what it looks like._

Meanwhile, the mother and father of a row has kicked off between Sherlock and JW.

"You stupid fucking egomaniacal exhibitionist!" Watson yells. "Can you not even be bothered to shut the fucking door before you start having sex on the fucking sofa? Mrs _Hudson_ might have come in. _Anyone_ might have come in."

This is true enough, as far as it goes.

"Mrs Hudson is out for the day," Sherlock says, sounding understandably defensive. And, Lestrade notes, _not_ immediately counter-attacking. Which is interesting, if a bit depressing.

"And me? What about _me_?" Watson is still yelling. "Do I not fucking well count at _all_? Do I not even register on your scale as a human being, for fuck's sake? Or do you really not give a flying fuck about _anyone_?"

Saying _fuck_ a lot as well, Lestrade notes. Hmm.

"You were out," Sherlock says, sounding almost apologetic.

"Yes, I was out. And I came back. To find – _this_." JW sounds as if there isn't a word in the dictionary bad enough to describe what Sherlock and Lestrade were doing on the sofa. It sounds almost as if he's vomiting up the words. Isn't, of course.

At this point Sherlock starts shouting as well.

"How was I supposed to know you were coming back? You're out all the time these days!"

 _Great_. Not only does Lestrade not get to come, he now has ringside seats for a lovers' tiff.

"Is this because of what happened the other night?" Watson demands. So he _had_ noticed. Interesting.

Sherlock's gone from shouting to icy contempt: "That is a ridiculous suggestion and utterly beneath you."

Watson splutters. Lestrade doesn't blame him. Still wants to put him through a plate-glass window though. Rather more so now.

"Sorry – who – utterly beneath _me_? Remind me again, which of us is it who's having weird sex on the sofa with the door open?"

 _Jealous_ , Lestrade thinks. Right. Good news for Sherlock. Not such good news for Lestrade.

Sherlock reverts to shouting: "If my behaviour is so abhorrent to your pitifully conventional little mind, may I suggest that you fuck off back to your girlfriend?"

Girlfriend? Didn't mention _that_ before. Could be a complication, Lestrade thinks hopefully.

"Yes, I'm sure that that would suit you down to the ground!" Watson snaps. "I hope the two of you will be very happy together."

 _Me too_ , thinks Lestrade. Won't happen though.

Sherlock is still ranting and becoming a little bit too abusive really. His words are tumbling over each other so it's a bit difficult to make them all out but Lestrade is fairly sure that _self-righteous prick_ and _miserable fucking Puritan_ were in there somewhere. Much as Lestrade doesn't like Watson, there are limits.

"Come on, Sherlock," he says, "you know that's not - "

" _Don't_ try to be intelligent, Lestrade, you're just embarrassing us all," snaps Sherlock.

And loses half his audience, just like that.

John Watson slams out of the room, stomps up the stairs and slams his bedroom door (at least, Lestrade assumes it's his own door he's slamming) so hard that the whole of 221b Baker Street shakes.

 _Well_.

Lestrade takes the opportunity to rearrange himself and get properly dressed again. One way to get rid of an erection that he hadn't thought about. Suspects Sherlock hadn't either, otherwise the stupid fucker might even have locked the door, never mind shut it. What you get for behaving as if the world revolves around you and other people don't really exist, he supposes.

Thing is, the blasted Watson is the first person Sherlock has ever really noticed _does_ exist. So it's a bit of bad luck for Sherlock.

Not that he doesn't deserve it, of course, after what he just did to Lestrade.

Lestrade thinks about doors, locks, and door-slamming. He remembers some fancy psychology book he read in his youth as part of his self-improvement efforts. He's forgotten most of it, but he remembers the door-slamming has something to do with saying You're Not Allowed To Fuck Me Even Though I Know You Want To. Thinks this is quite an interesting message for John Watson to be sending, if that is what it means, since he's not absolutely sure that Watson is gay. Or gay _yet_. Wouldn't that be just Lestrade's luck? On the sidelines as a confidant while Sherlock gets put through the wringer by a confused straight man. _I can hardly wait._

Anyway, the door-slamming seems like yet another sign reading Good News For Sherlock, Bad News (Again) For DI Lestrade. There's no justice.

Lestrade looks at Sherlock, who is slumped in the armchair. Now that he's not fighting any more he looks woebegone again.

And we're back where we started. Bloody marvellous.

Lestrade is _not_ going to go through all that again. Apart from anything else, he thinks he might have a coronary if he has to repeat the last bit.

"Look," he says, "I can't stand the guy, but you do know you're in with a chance there, don't you?"

"Really," says Sherlock. Sounding flat and drained. Then, slightly more hopefully, "Really? Based on what?"

Lestrade could have sworn his libido had left the building, but this seems not to be the case. He considers worrying about the fact that he fancies Sherlock almost more when he's like this than when Sherlock is his usual obnoxious self, and whether this means that he's perverted or just that he should start reading up on S/M. Decides to worry about that later.

Sherlock is looking expectant and slightly impatient that Lestrade hasn't yet answered his question.

"Well?" he demands.

"Obvious," says Lestrade. "Sticks out like a sore thumb. So to speak."

Sherlock glares. This is no laughing matter.

Lestrade shakes his head wonderingly.

"You really are completely fucking impossible, you know," he says.

"I know," Sherlock says. He grins.

His powers of recovery really are alarming, like a drooping toddler who's suddenly had a big sugar hit.

Alarming but not unpromising, Lestrade thinks, cheering up a bit himself. Maybe the afternoon isn't going to be a total washout after all. Nothing like a good fuck after a massive row, even if the person you're fucking isn't the one you had the row with.

Lestrade reckons he's got half an hour, tops, before bloody Watson stops sulking and comes downstairs to see if Sherlock would like a nice cup of tea. Man like that has no staying power. And if these two are going to get it on – which, much as he hates to admit it, they probably are – Lestrade may not get another crack at this particular gorgeous fucked-up posh boy for a very long time. Or at all.

So he'd better get a move on.

Putting on his best DI voice, the one he keeps for crime scenes and real emergencies, he barks:

" _ **Will**_ you _**lock**_ that _**bloody**_ door, Sherlock, for _**fuck's**_ sake! _**NOW**_ **.** "

Slightly to both their surprise, Sherlock does so.

" _Right_ ," says Lestrade. "Now _get_ over here and finish what you started, and do it _properly_ this time."

He's bluffing of course, just chancing his arm really.

But sometimes bluffing works.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lestrade's past in this story was prompted by Rupert Graves's role as Scudder in the film adaptation of E.M. Forster's Maurice.


End file.
